E MOB 



JOHN GA 





( 'lass — tlll_4^y_2> 

<'01>YRKI|IT DKI'OSIT. 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

VILLA KTJBEIN, and Otlier Stories 
THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
THE MAN OF PROPERTY 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE 
FRATERNITY 
THE PATRICIAN 
THE DARK FLOWER 



A COMMENTARY 

A MOTLEY 

THE INN OF TRANQUILLITY 



plays: first series 

and Separately 
THE SILVER BOX 
JOY 
STRIFE 

plays: second series 

and Separately 
THE eldest son 
THE little dream 

justice 
plays: third series 

and Separately 

the fugitive 
the pigeon 

THE mob 



moods, songs, and doggerels 



THE MOB 

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 



THE MOB 

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 

BY 

JOHN GALSWORTHY 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1914 



COPYRIQHT, 1914, BY 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 



Published June, 1914 



JUN 20 1914 'R 




0)CI.D 37367 



PERSONS OF THE PLAY 

Stephen More, Member of Parliament 

Katherine, his wife 

Olive, their little daughter 

The Dean of Stour, Katherine s uncle 

General Sir John Julian, her father 

Captain Hubert Julian, her brother 

Helen, his vnfe 

Edward Mendip, editor of " The Parthenon" 

Alan Steel, Mare's secretary 

James Home, architect ^ 

Charles Shelder, solicitor I A deputation of More's 

Mark Wace, bookseller j constituents 

William Banning, manufacturer J 

Nurse Wreford 

Wreford {her son), Hubert's orderly 

His Sweetheart 

The Footman Henry 

A Doorkeeper 

Some Black-Coated Gentlemen 

A Student 

A Girl 

A Mob 

ACT I. The dining-room of More's town house, evening. 

ACT II. The same, morning. 

ACT III. SCENE I. An alley at the back of a suburban theatre. 

SCENE II. Katherine" s bedroom. 
ACT IV. The dining-room of M ore's house, late afternoon. 
AFTERMA TH. The corner of a square, at dawn. 

Between ACTS I and II some days elapse. 

Between ACTS II and III three months. 

Between ACT III SCENE I and ACT III SCENE II no time. 

Between ACTS III and IV a few hours. 

Between ACTS IV and AFTERMATH an indefinite period. 



CAST OF THE ORIGINAL PRODUCTION 

AT THE 

GAIETY THEATRE. MANCHESTER, MARCH 30, 1914 



Stephen More 

Katherine 

Olive 

The Dean of Stour 

General Sir John Julian 

Captain Hubert Julian 

Helen 

Edward Mendip 

Alan Steel 

James Home 

Charles Shelder 

Mark Wace 

William Banning 

Nurse Wreford 

Wreford 

His Sweetheart 

The Footman Henry 

A Doorkeeper 

A Student 

A Girl 



Milton Rosmer 

Irene Rooke 

Phyllis Bourke 

Leonard Mudie 

Herbert Lomas 

William Home 

Hilda Bruce Potter 

D. Lewin Mannering 

Eric Barber 

Archibald McClean 

Perot Foster 

Napier Barry 

Charles Bibby 

Mrs. a. B. Tapping 

Cecil Calvert 

Hilda Davies 

Basil Holmes 

Alfred Russell 

Ellis Dee 

Muriel Pope 



ACT I 

It is half -past nine of a July evening. In a dining-room 
lighted by sconces, and apparelled in wall-paper, 
carpet, and curtains of deep vivid blue, the large 
French windoivs between two columns are open on to 
a wide terrace, beyond which are seen trees in dark- 
ness, and distant shapes of lighted houses. On one 
side is a bay window, over which curtains are partly 
drawn. Opposite to this window is a door leading 
into the hall. At an oval rosewood table, set vdth 
silver, flowers, fruit, and vnne, six people are seated 
after dinner. Back to the bay window is Stephen 
More, the host, a man of forty, with a fine-cut face, 
a rather charming smile, and the eyes of an idealist; 
to his right, Sm John Julian, an old soldier, with 
thin brown features, and grey mmistaches; to SiK 
John's right, his brother, the Dean of Stour, a 
tall, dark, ascetic-looking Churchman: to his right 
Katherine is leaning forward, her elbows on the 
table, and her chin on her hands, staring across at 
her husband; to her right sits Edward Mendip, a 
pale man of forty-five, very bald, with a fine fore- 
head, and on his clear-cut lips a smile that shows 
his teeth; between him and More is Helen Julian, 
1 



2 THE MOB ACT I 

a pretty dark-haired young woman, absorbed in 
thoughts of her own. The voices are tuned to the 
pitch of heated discussion, as the curtain rises. 

The Dean. I disagree with you, Stephen; absolutely, 
entirely disagree. 

More. I can't help it. 

Mendip. Remember a certain war, Stephen! Were 
your chivalrous notions any good, then.'' And, what 
was winked at in an obsciu-e young Member is anath- 
ema for an Under Secretary of State. You can't 
afford 

More. To follow my conscience? That's new, 
Mendip. 

Mendip. Idealism can be out of place, my friend. 

The Dean. The Government is dealing here with a 
wild lawless race, on whom I must say I think senti- 
ment is rather wasted. 

More. God made them. Dean. 

Mendip. I have my doubts. 

The Dean. They have proved themselves faithless. 
We have the right to chastise. 

More. If I hit a little man in the eye, and he hits 
me back, have I the right to chastise him? 

Sir John. We didn't begin this business. 

More. What! With our missionaries and our 
trading? 

The Dean. It is news indeed that the work of civ- 
ilization may be justifiably met by murder. Have you 
forgotten Glaive and Morlinson? 



ACT I THE MOB 3 

Sir John. Yes. And that poor fellow Groome and 
his wife.'* 

More. They went into a wild country, against the 
feeling of the tribes, on their own business. What has 
the nation to do with the mishaps of gamblers? 

Sm John. We can't stand by and see our own flesh 
and blood ill-treated! 

The Dean. Does our rule bring blessing — or does it 
not, Stephen? 

More. Sometimes; but with all my soul I deny the 
fantastic superstition that our rule can benefit a people 
like this, a nation of one race, as different from our- 
selves as dark from light — in colour, religion, every 
mortal thing. We can only pervert their natural in- 
stincts. 

The Dean. That to me is an unintelligible point of 
view. 

Mendip. Go into that philosophy of yours a little 
deeper, Stephen — it spells stagnation. There are no 
fixed stars on this earth. Nations can't let each other 
alone. 

More. Big ones could let little ones alone. 

Mendip. If they could there'd be no big ones. My 
dear fellow, we know little nations are your hobby, 
but surely office should have toned you down. 

Sir John. I've served my country fifty years, and 
I say she is not in the wrong. 

More. I hope to serve her fifty. Sir John, and I 
say she is. 



4 THE MOB ACT i 

Mendip. There are moments when such things can't 
be said, More. 

More. They'll be said by me to-night, Mendip. 

Mendip. In the House? 

[More nods. 

Katherine. Stephen! 

Mendip. Mrs. More, you mustn't let him. It's 
madness. 

More. [Rising] You can tell people that to-morrow, 
Mendip. Give it a leader in TJie Parthenon. 

Mendip. Political lunacy ! No man in yoiu- position 
has a right to fly out like this at the eleventh hour. 

More. I've made no secret of my feelings all along. 
I'm against this war, and against the annexation we all 
know it will lead to. 

Mendip. My dear fellow! Don't be so Quixotic! 
We shall have war within the next twenty-four hours, 
and nothing you can do will stop it. 

Helen. Oh! No! 

Mendip. I'm afraid so, Mrs. Hubert. 

Sir John. Not a doubt of it, Helen. 

Mendip. [To More] And you mean to charge the 
windmill? 

[More nods. 

Mendip. C'est magnifique! 

More. I'm not out for advertisement. 

Mendip. You will get it! 

More. Must speak the truth sometimes, even at 
that risk. 

Sir John. It is not the truth. 



ACT I THE MOB 5 

Mendip. The greater the truth the greater the libel, 
and the greater the resentment of the person libelled. 

The Dean. [Trying to bring matters to a blander 
level] My dear Stephen, even if you were right — which 
I deny — about the initial merits, there surely comes a 
point where the individual conscience must resign it- 
self to the country's feeling. This has become a ques- 
tion of national honour. 

Sir John. Well said, James ! 

More. Nations are bad judges of their honour, Dean. 

The Dean. I shall not follow you there. 

More. No. It's an awkward word. 

Katherine. [Stopping The Dean] Uncle James! 
Please! 

[More looks at her intently. 

Sir John. So you're going to put yourself at the 
head of the cranks, ruin your career, and make me 
ashamed that you're my son-in-law ? 

More. Is a man only to hold beliefs when they're 
popular? You've stood up to be shot at often enough, 
Sir John. 

Sir John. Never by my country! Your speech will 
be in all the foreign press — trust 'em for seizing on 
anything against us. A show-up before other coun- 
tries ! 

More. You admit the show-up? 

Sir John. I do not, sir. 

The Dean. The position has become impossible. 
The state of things out there must be put an end to 
once for all! Come, Katherine, back us up! 



6 THE MOB ACT i 

More. My country, right or wrong! Guilty — still 
my country! 

Mendip. That begs the question. 

Katherine rises. The Dean, too, stands up. 

The Dean. [In a lo'w voice] Quern Deus vult per- 
dere ! 

Sir John. Unpatriotic ! 

More. I'll have no truck with tyranny. 

Katherine. Father doesn't admit tyranny. Nor 
do any of us, Stephen. 

Hubert Julian, a tall soldier-like man, has 
come in. 

Helen. Hubert! 

She gets up and goes to him, and they talk to- 
gether near the door. 

Sir John. What in God's name is your idea? We've 
forborne long enough, in all conscience. 

More. Sir John, we great Powers have got to change 
our ways in dealing with weaker nations. The very 
dogs can give us lessons — watch a big dog with a little 
one. 

Mendip. No, no, these things are not so simple as 
all that. 

More. There's no reason in the world, Mendip, why 
the rules of chivalry should not apply to nations at 
least as well as to — dogs. 

Mendip. My dear friend, are you to become that 
hapless kind of outcast, a champion of lost causes.'' 

More. This cause is not lost. 

Mendip. Right or wrong, as lost as ever was cause 



ACT I THE MOB 7 

in all this world. There was never a time when the 
word "patriotism" stirred mob sentiment as it does 
now. 'Ware "Mob," Stephen — 'ware "Mob"! 

More. Because general sentiment's against me, I — 
a public man — am to deny my faith? The point is not 
whether I'm right or wrong, Mendip, but whether I'm 
to sneak out of my conviction because it's unpopular. 

The Dean. I'm afraid I must go. [To Katherine] 
Good -night, my dear! Ah! Hubert! [He greets Hu- 
bert] Mr. Mendip, I go your way. Can I drop you.' 

Mendip. Thank you. Good-night, Mrs. More. Stop 
him! It's perdition. 

He and The Dean go out. Katherine puts her 
arm in Helen's, and takes her out of the room. 
Hubert remains standing by tJie door. 

Sir John. I knew your views were extreme in many 
ways, Stephen, but I never thought the husband of 
my daughter would be a Peace-at-any-price man! 

More. I am not! But I prefer to fight some one 
my own size. 

Sir John. Well! I can only hope to God you'll 
come to your senses before you commit the folly of 
this speech. I must get back to the War Office. 
Good-night, Hubert. 

Hubert. Good-night, Father. 

Sir John goes out. Hubert stands motionless, 
dejected. 

Hubert. We've got our orders. 

More. What? When d'you sail? 

Hubert. At once. 



8 THE MOB 



ACT I 



More. Poor Helen! 

Hubert. Not married a year; pretty bad luck! 
[More touches his arm in sympathy] Well! We've got 
to put feelings in our pockets. Look here, Stephen— 
don't make that speech! Think of Katherine — with 
the Dad at the War Office, and me going out, and 
Ralph and old George out there already! You can't 
trust your tongue when you're hot about a thing. 

More. I must speak, Hubert. 

Hubert. No, no! Bottle yourself up for to-night. 
The next few hours '11 see it begin. [More turns from 
him] If you don't care whether you mess up your own 
career — don't tear Katherine in two! 

More. You're not shirking your duty because of 
your wife. 

Hubert. Well ! You're riding for a fall, and a god- 
less mucker it'll be. This'll be no picnic. We shall 
get some nasty knocks out there. Wait and see the 
feeling here when we've had a force or two cut up in 
those mountains. It's awful country. Those fellows 
have got modern arms, and are jolly good fighters. 
Do drop it, Stephen! 

More. Must risk something, sometimes, Hubert — 
even in my profession! 

[As he speaks, Katherine comes in. 

Hubert. But it's hopeless, my dear chap — abso- 
lutely. 

More turns to the window, Hubert to his sister 
— then with a gesture towards More, as though 
to leave the matter to her, he goes out. 



ACT I THE MOB 9 

Katherine. Stephen! Are you really going to 
speak? [He nods] I ask you not. 

More. You know my feeling. 

Katherine. But it's our own country. We can't 
stand apart from it. You won't stop anything — only 
make people hate you. I can't bear that. 

More. I tell you, Kit, some one must raise a voice. 
Two or three reverses — certain to come — and the whole 
country will go wild. And one more little nation will 
cease to live. 

Katherine. If you believe in your country, you 
must believe that the more land and power she has, the 
better for the world. 

More. Is that your faith? 

Katherine. Yes. 

More. I respect it; I even understand it; but — I 
can't hold it. 

Katherine. But, Stephen, your speech will be a 
rallying cry to all the cranks, and every one who has 
a spite against the country. They'll make you their 
figurehead. [More smiles] They will. Your chance of 
the Cabinet will go — you may even have to resign your 
seat. 

More. Dogs will bark. These things soon blow over. 

Katherine. No, no! If you once begin a thing, 
you always go on; and what earthly good? 

More. History won't say: "And this they did with- 
out a single protest from their public men!" 

Katherine. There are plenty who 

More. Poets? 



10 THE MOB ACT I 

Katherine. Do you remember that day on our 
honeymoon, going up Ben Lawers? You were lying 
on your face in the heather; you said it was like kiss- 
ing a loved woman. There was a lark singing — you 
said that was the voice of one's worship. The hills 
were very blue; that's why we had blue here, because 
it was the best dress of our country. You do love her. 
More. Love her! 

KATHERmE. You'd have done this for me — then. 
More. Would you have asked me — then, Kit? 
Katherine. Yes. The country's our country ! Oh ! 
Stephen, think what it'll be like for me — with Hubert 
and the other boys out there. And poor Helen, and 
Father! I beg you not to make this speech. 

More. Kit! This isn't fair. Do you want me to 
feel myself a cur? 

Katherine. [Breathless] I — I — almost feel you'll be 
a cur to do it [She looks at him, frightened by her own 
words. Then, as the footman Henry hxis come in to 
clear the table — very low] I ask you not! 

[He does not answer, and she goes out. 
More [To the servant] Later, please, Henry, later! 
The servant retires. More still stands looking 
down at the dining-table; then 'putting his hand 
to his throat, as if to free it from the grip of his 
collar, he pours out a glass of water, and drinks 
it off. In the street, outside the bay window, 
two street musicians, a harp and a violin, have 
taken up their stand, and after some twangs and 
scrapes, break into music. More goes towards 



ACT I THE MOB 11 

the sound, and draws aside one curtain. After 
a moment, he returns to the table, and takes up 
the notes of the speech. He is in an agony of 
indecision. 
More. A cur! 

He seems about to tear his notes across. Then, 
changing his mind, turns them over and over, 
muttering. His voice gradually grows louder, 
till he is declaiming to the empty room the 
peroration of his speech. 
More. . . . We have arrogated to our land the 
title Champion of Freedom, Foe of Oppression. Is 
that indeed a bygone glory? Is it not worth some 
sacrifice of our pettier dignity, to avoid laying another 
stone upon its grave; to avoid placing before the search- 
light eyes of History the spectacle of yet one more piece 
of national cynicism? We are about to force our will 
and our dominion on a race that has always been free, 
that loves its country, and its independence, as much 
as ever we love ours. I cannot sit silent to-night and 
see this begin. As we are tender of our own land, so 
we should be of the lands of others. I love my coun- 
try. It is because I love my country that I raise my 
voice. Warlike in spirit these people may be — but 
they have no chance against ourselves. And war on 
such, however agreeable to the blind moment, is odious 
to the future. The great heart of mankind ever beats 
in sense and sympathy with the weaker. It is against 
this great heart of mankind that we are going. In the 
name of Justice and Civilization we pursue this policy; 



12 THE MOB ACT i 

but by Justice we shall hereafter be judged, and by 
Civil ization — condemned. 

While he is speaking, a little figure has flovm 
along the terrace outside, in the direction of 
the music, but has stopped at the sound of his 
voice, and stands in the open window, listening 
— a dark-haired, dark-eyed child, in a blue 
dressing-gown caught up in her hand. The 
street musicians, having reached the end of a 
tune, are silent. 
In the intensity of More's feeling, a wine-glass, 
gripped too strongly, breaks and falls in pieces 
on to a finger-bowl. The child starts forward 
into the room. 
More. Olive! 

Olive. Who were you speaking to. Daddy? 
More. [Staring at her] The wind, sweetheart! 
Olive. There isn't any! 
More. What blew you down, then? 
Olive. [Mysteriously] The music. Did the wind 
break the wine-glass, or did it come in two in your 
hand? 

More. Now my sprite! Upstairs again, before 
Nurse catches you. Fly! Fly! 

Olive. Oh! no. Daddy! [With confidential fervour] 
It feels like things to-night! 
More. You're right there! 

Olive. [Pulling him down to her, and whispering] I 
mxist get back again in secret. H'sh ! 

She suddenly ruTis and wraps herself into one of 



ACT I 



THE MOB 13 



the curtains of the hay window. A young man 
enters, with a note in his hand. 
More. Hallo, Steel! 

[The street musicians have again begun to play. 
Steel. From Sir John— by special messenger from 
the War Office. 

More. [Reading the note] "The ball is opened." 

He stands brooding over the note, and Steel looks 
at him anxiously. He is a dark, sallow, thin- 
faced young man, with the eyes of one who can 
attach himself to people, and suffer with them. 
Steel. I'm glad it's begun, sir. It would have 
been an awful pity to have made that speech. 
More. You too, Steel! 

Steel, I mean, if it's actually started 

More. [Tearing the note across] Yes. Keep that to 
yourself. 

Steel. Do you want me any more? 

More takes from his breast pocket some papers, 
and pitches them down on the bureau. 
More. Answer these. 

Steel. [Going to the bureau] Fetherby was simply 
sickening. [He begins to write. Struggle has begun 
again in More] Not the faintest recognition that there 
are two sides to it. 

More gives him a quick look, goes quietly to the 
dining-table and picks up his sheaf of notes. 
Hiding them with his sleeve, he goes back to 
the window, where he again stands hesitating. 



14 THE MOB ACT i 

Steel. Chief gem: [Imitating] "We must show Im- 
pudence at last that Dignity is not asleep!" 

More, [Moving out on to the terrace] Nice quiet 
night! 

Stell. This to the Cottage Hospital — shall I say 
you will preside? 
Moke. No. 

Steel writes; then looking up and seeing that 

More is no longer there, he goes to the window, 

looks to right and left, returns to the bureau, 

and is about to sit down again when a thought 

seems to strike him with consternation. He 

goes again to the window. Then snatching up 

his hat, he passes hurriedly out along the terrace. 

As he vanishes, Katherine comes in from the 

hall. After looking out on to the terrace she goes 

to the bay window; stands there listening; then 

comes restlessly back into the room. Olive, 

creeping quietly from behind the curtain, clasps 

her round the waist. 

Katherine. O my darling! How you startled me! 

What are you doing down here, you wicked little sinner! 

Olive. I explained all that to Daddy. We needn't 

go into it again, need we? 

Katherine. Where is Daddy? 
Olive. Gone. 
Katherine. When? 

Olive. Oh! only just, and Mr. Steel went after 
him like a rabbit. [The music stops] They haven't 
been paid, you know. 



ACT I THE MOB 15 

Katherine. Now, go up at once. I can't think 
how you got down here. 

Olive. I can. [Wheedling] If you pay them. Mum- 
my, they're sure to play another. 
Katherine. Well, give them that! One more only. 
She gives Olive a coin, who runs with it to the 
hay windoWy opens the side casement, and calls 
to the musicians. 
Olive. Catch, please! And would you play just 
one more.'^ 

She returns from the window, and seeing her 
mother lost in thought, rubs herself against her. 
Olive. Have you got an ache.'' 
Katherine. Right through me, darling! 
Olive. Oh! 

[The musicians strike up a dance. 
Olive. Oh! Mummy! I must just dance ! 

She kicks off her little blue shoes, and begins 
dancing. While she is capering Hubert 
comes in from the hall. He stands watching 
his little niece for a minute, and Katherine 
looks at him. 
Hubert. Stephen gone! . 
Katherine. Yes — stop, Olive! 
Olive. Are you good at my sort of dancing. Uncle? 
Hubert. Yes, chick — awfully! 
Katherine. Now, Olive! 

The musicians have suddenly broken off in the 
middle of a bar. From the street comes the 
noise of distant shouting. 



16 THE MOB ACT i 

Olive. Listen, Uncle! Isn't it a particular noise? 
Hubert and Katherine listen with all their 
might, and Olive stares at their faces. Hubert 
goes to the window. The sound comes nearer. 
The shouted words are faintly heard: "Pyper — 
war — our force crosses frontier — sharp fightin' 
—pyper." 
Katherine. [Breathless] Yes! It is. 

The street cry is heard again in two distant voices 
coming from different directions: " War — pyper 
— sharp fightin' on the frontier — pyper." 
Katherine. Shut out those ghouls! 

As Hubert closes the window. Nurse Wreford 
comes in from the hall. She is an elderly 
woman endowed with a motherly grimness. 
She fixes Olive with her eye, then suddenly 
becomes conscious of the street cry. 
Nurse. Oh! don't say it's begun. 

[Hubert comes from the window. 
Nurse. Is the regiment to go, Mr. Hubert? 
Hubert. Yes, Nanny. 
Nurse. Oh, dear! My boy! 

Katherine. [Signing to where Olive stands with wide 
eyes] Nurse! 

Hubert. I'll look after him. Nurse. 
Nurse. And him keepin' company. And you not 
married a year. Ah! Mr. Hubert, now do 'ee take 
care; you and liim's both so rash. 
Hubert. Not I, Nurse! 

Nurse looks long into his face, then lifts her 
finger, and beckons Olive. 



ACT I THE MOB 17 

Olive. [Perceiving new sensations before her, goes 
quietly] Good-night, Uncle! Nanny, d'you know why 
I was obliged to come down? [In a fervent ivhisper] It's 
a secret! [As she passes with Nurse out into the hall, 
her voice is heard saying, "Do tell me all about the 
war,"] 

Hubert. [Smothering emotion under a blunt manner] 
We sail on Friday, Kit. Be good to Helen, old girl. 

Katherine. Oh! I wish ! Why — can't — wom- 
en — fight.'' 

Hubert. Yes, it's bad for you, with Stephen taking 

it like this. But he'll come round now it's once begun. 

Katherine shakes her head, then goes suddenly 

up to him, and throws her arms round his neck. 

It is as if all the feeling pent up in her were 

finding vent in this hug. 

The door from the hall is opened, and Sir John's 

voice is heard outside: "All right. Til find her." 

Katherine. Father! 

[Sir John comes in. 
Sir John. Stephen get my note? I sent it over the 
moment I got to the War Office. 

Katherine. I expect so. [Seeing the torn note on the 
table] Yes. 

Sir John. They're shouting the news now. Thank 
God, I stopped that crazy speech of his in time. 
Katherine. Have you stopped it? 

Sir John. What! He wouldn't be such a sublime 
donkey? 



18 THE MOB ACT i 

Katherine. I think that is just what he might be. 
[Going to the window] We shall know soon. 

Sir John, after staring at her, goes up to Hubert. 
Sir John. Keep a good heart, my boy. The coun- 
try's first. [They exchange a hand-squeeze.] 

Katherine hacks away from the window. Steel 
has appeared there from the terrace, breathless 
from running. 
Steel. Mr. More back? 
Katherine. No. Has he spoken? 
Steel. Yes. 
Katherine. Against? 
Steel. Yes. 
Sm John. What? After! 

Sir John stands rigid, then turns and marches 
straight out into the hall. At a sign from 
Katherine, Hubert follows him. 
Katherine. Yes, Mr. Steel? 

Steel. [Still breathless and agitated] We were here 
— he slipped away from me somehow. He must have 
gone straight down to the House. I ran over, but 
when I got in under the Gallery he was speaking al- 
ready. They expected something — I never heard it 
so still there. He gripped them from the first word — 
deadly — every syllable. It got some of those fellows. 
But all the time, under the silence you could feel a — 
sort of — of — current going round. And then Sherratt 
— ^I think it was — began it, and you saw the anger 
rising in them; but he kept them down — his quietness! 
The feeling! I've never seen anything like it there. 



ACT I THE MOB 19 

Then there was a whisper all over the House that 
fighting had begun. And the whole thing broke out — 
a regular riot — as if they could have killed him. Some 
one tried to drag him down by the coat-tails, but he 
shook him off, and went on. Then he stopped dead 
and walked out, and the noise dropped like a stone. 
The whole thing didn't last five minutes. It was fine, 
Mrs. More; like — like lava; he was the only cool per- 
son there. I wouldn't have missed it for anything — 
it was grand! 

More has appeared on the terrace, behind Steel. 
Katherine. Good-night, Mr. Steel. 
Steel. [Startled] Oh!— Good-night! 

He goes out into the hall. Katherine picks up 
Olive's shoes, and stands clasping them to her 
breast. More comes in. 
Katherine. You've cleared your conscience, then! 
I didn't think you'd hurt me so. 

More does not answer, still living in the scene he 
has gone through, and Katherine goes a little 
nearer to him. 
Katherine. I'm with the country, heart and soul, 
Stephen. I warn you. 

While they stand in silence, facing each other, the 
footman, Henry, enters from the hall. 
Footman. These notes, sir, from the House of Com- 
mons. 

Katherine. [Taking them] You can have the room 
directly. 

[The Footman goes out. 



20 THE MOB act i 

More. Open them! 

Katherine opens one after the other, and lets 
them fall on the table. 
More. Well? 

Katherine. What you might expect. Three of 
your best friends. It's begun. 

More. 'Ware Mob! [He gives a laugh] I must write 
to the Chief. 

Katherine makes an impulsive movement to- 
wards him; then quietly goes to the bureau, sits 
down and takes up a pen. 
Katherine. Let me make the rough draft. [She 
waits] Yes.? 
More. [Dictating] 

"July 15th. 
"Dear Sir Charles, — After my speech to-night, 
embodying my most unalterable convictions [E^ther- 
INE turns and looks up at him, but he is staring straight 
before him, and with a little movement of despair she goes 
on v)riting] I have no alternative but to place the resig- 
nation of my Under-Secretaryship in your hands. My 
view, my faith in this matter may be wrong — but I 
am surely right to keep the flag of my faith flying. I 
imagine I need not enlarge on the reasons " 

the curtain falls. 



ACT II 

Before noon a few days later. The open windows of the 
dining-room let in the sunlight. On the table a num- 
ber of newspapers are littered. Helen is sitting 
there, staring straight before her. A newspaper boy 
runs by outside calling out his wares. At the sound 
she gets up and goes out on to the terrace. Hubert 
enters from the hall. He goes at once to the terrace, 
and draws Helen into the room. 

Helen. Is it true — what they're shouting? 
Hubert. Yes. Worse than we thought. They got 
our men all crumpled up in the Pass — guns helpless. 
Ghastly beginning. 
Helen. Oh, Hubert! 
Hubert. My dearest girl! 

Helen puts her face up to his. He kisses her. 

Then she turns quickly into the bay window. 

The door from the hall has been opened, arid 

the footman, Henry, comes in, preceding 

Wrepord and his sweetheart. 

Henry. Just wait here, will you, while I let Mrs. 

More know. [Catching sight of Hubert] Beg pardon, 

sir! 

Hubert. All right, Henry. [Off-hand] Ah! Wre- 
ford! [The Footman withdraws] So you've brought her 
21 



22 THE MOB act ii 

round. That's good! My sister'U look after her — 
don't you worry! Got everything packed? Three 
o'clock sharp. 

Wreford. [A broad-faced soldier, dressed in khaki 
with a certain look of dry humour, now dimmed — speaking 
with a West Country burr] That's right, zurr; all's 
ready. 

Helen has come out of the window, and is quietly 
looking at Wreford and the girl standing there 
so awkwardly. 
Helen. [Quietly] Take care of him, Wreford. 
Hubert. We'll take care of each other, won't we, 
Wreford.'* 

Helen. How long have you been engaged? 
The Girl. [A pretty, indeterminate young woman] 
Six months. [She sobs suddenly. 

Helen. Ah! He'll soon be safe back. 
Wreford. I'll owe 'em for this. [In a low voice to 
her] Don't 'ee now! Don't 'ee! 
Helen. No! Don't cry, please! 

She stands struggling with her own lips, then goes 
out on to the terrace, Hubert following. Wre- 
ford and his girl remain where they were, 
strange and awkward, she muffling her sobs. 
Wreford. Don't 'ee go on like that, Nance; I'll 
'ave to take you 'ome. That's silly, now we've a-come. 
I might be dead and buried by the fuss you're makin'. 
You've a-drove the lady away. See! 

She regains control of herself as the door is opened 
and Katherine appears, accompanied by 



ACT n THE MOB 23 

Olive, who regards Wreford with awe and 
curiosity, and by Nurse, lohose eyes are red, 
but whose manner is composed. 

Katherine, My brother told me; so glad you've 
brought her. 

Wreford. Ye — as, M'. She feels me goin', a bit. 

Katherine. Yes, yes! Still, it's for the country, 
isn't it? 

The Girl. That's what Wreford keeps tellin' me. 
He've got to go — so it's no use upsettin' 'im. And of 
course I keep tellin' him I shall be all right. 

Nurse. [Whose eyes never leave her son's face] And 
so you will. 

The Girl. Wreford thought it 'd comfort him to 
know you were interested in me. 'E's so 'ot-headed 
I'm sure somethin' '11 come to 'im. 

Katherine. We've all got some one going. Are 
you coming to the docks? We must send them oflf 
in good spirits, you know. 

Olive. Perhaps he'll get a medal. 

EIatherine. Olive! 

Nurse. You wouldn't like for him to be hanging 
back, one of them anti-patriot, stop-the-war ones. 

Katherine. [Quickly] Let me see — I have your 
address. [Holding out her hand to Wreford] We'll 
look after her. 

Olive. [In a loud whisper] Shall I lend him my 
toffee? 

Katherine. If you like, dear. [To Wreford] Now 



24 THE MOB act ii 

take care of my brother and yourself, and we'll take 
care of her. 
Wreford. Ye — as, M'. 

He ilien looks rather vyretchedly at his girl, as if 
the intervietv had not done so much for him as 
he had hoped. She drops a little curtsey. 
Wreford salutes. 
Olive. [Who has taken from the bureau a packet, 
places it in his hand] It's very nourishing! 
Wreford. Thank you, miss. 

Then, nudging each other, and entangled in their 
feelings and the conventions, they pass out, 
shepherded by Nurse. 
Kathereste. Poor things! 

Olive. What is an anti-patriot, stop-the-war one, 
Mummy? 

Katherine. [Taking up a newspaper] Just a stupid 
name, dear — don't chatter! 

Olive. But tell me just one weeny thing! 
Katherine. Well? 
Olive. Is Daddy one? 

Katherine. Olive! How much do you know about 
this war? 

Olive. They won't obey us properly. So we have 
to beat them, and take away their country. We shall, 
shan't we? 

Katherine. Yes. But Daddy doesn't want us to; 
he doesn't think it fair, and he's been saying so. Peo- 
ple are very angry with him. 



ACT n THE MOB 25 

Olive. Why isn't it fair? I suppose we're littler 
than them. 
Katherine. No. 

Olive. Oh! in history we always are. And we 
always win. That's why I like history. Which are 
you for, Mummy — us or them.!* 
Katherine. Us. 

Olive. Then I shall have to be. It's a pity we're 
not on the same side as Daddy. [Katherine shudders] 
Will they hurt him for not taking our side.? 
Katherine. I expect they will, Olive. 
Olive. Then we shall have to be extra nice to him. 
Katherine. If we can. 
Olive. / can; I feel like it. 

Helen and Hubert have returned along the ter- 
race. Seeing Katherine and the child, Helen 
passes on, hut Hubert cmies in at the French 
window. 
Olive. [Catching sight of him— softly] Is Uncle 
Hubert going to the front to-day? [Katherine nods] 
But not grandfather? 
Katherine. No, dear. 
Olive. That's lucky for them, isn't it? 

Hubert comes in. The presence of the child gives 
him self-co7itrol. 
Hubert. Well, old girl, it's good-bye. [To Olive] 
What shall I bring you back, chick? 

Olive. Are there shops at the front? I thought it 
was dangerous. 
Hubert. Not a bit. 



26 THE MOB act ii 

Olive. [Disillusioned] Oh! 

Katherine. Now, darling, give Uncle a good hug. 
Under cover of Olive's hug, Katherine repairs 
her courage. 
Katherine. The Dad and I'll be with you all in 
spirit. Good-bye, old boy! 

They do not dare to kiss, and Hubert goes out 
very stiff and straight, in the doorway passing 
Steel, of whom he takes no notice. Steel 
hesitates, and would go away. 
Katherine. Come in, Mr. Steel. 
Steel. The deputation from Toulmin ought to be 
here, Mrs. More. It's twelve. 

Olive. [Having made a little ball of newspaper — slyly] 
Mr. Steel, catch! 

[She throws, and Steel catches it in silence. 
Katherine. Go upstairs, won't you, darling.'* 
Olive. Mayn't I read in the window, Mummy.'' 
Then I shaU see if any soldiers pass. 

Katherine. No. You can go out on the terrace a 
little, and then you must go up. 

[Olive goes reluctantly out on to the terrace. 
Steel. Awful news this morning of that Pass! 
And have you seen these? [Reading from the newspaper] 
"We will have no truck with the jargon of the degen- 
erate who vilifies his country at such a moment. The 
Member for Toulmin has earned for himself the con- 
tempt of all virile patriots." [He takes up a second 
journal] "There is a certain type of public man who, 
even at his own expense, cannot resist the itch to 



ACT 11 THE MOB 27 

advertise himself. We would, at moments of national 

crisis, muzzle such persons, as we muzzle dogs that 

we suspect of incipient rabies. . . ." They're in full 

cry after him! 

Katherine. I mind much more all the creatures 

who are always flinging mud at the country making 

him their hero suddenly! You know what's in his 

mind.'' 

Steel. Oh! We must get him to give up that idea 

of lecturing everywhere against the war, Mrs. More; 

we simply must. 

Katherine. [Listening] The deputation's come. Go 

and fetch him, Mr. Steel. He'll be in his room, at the 

House. 

Steel goes out, and Katherine stands at bay. 
In a moment he opens the door again, to usher 
in the deputation; then retires. The four gentle- 
men have entered as if conscious of grave issues. 
The first and most picturesque is James Home, 
a thin, tall, grey-bearded man, with plentiful 
hair, contradictious eyebrows, and the half-shy, 
half-bold manners, alternately rude and over- 
polite, of one not accustomed to Society, yet 
secretly much taken with himself. He is dressed 
in rough tweeds, with a red silk tie slung through 
a ring, and is closely followed by Mark Wace, 
a waxy, round-faced man of middle-age, with 
sleek dark hair, traces of whisker, and a smooth 
way of continually rubbing his hands together, 
as if selling something to an esteemed customer. 



28 THE MOB act u 

He is rather stout, wears dark clothes, with 
a large gold chain. Following him comes 
Chakles Shelder, a lawyer of fifty, with a 
bald egg-shaped head, and gold pince-nez. He 
has little side whiskers, a leathery, yellowish 
skin, a rather kind but watchful and dubious 
face, and when he speaks seems to have a plum 
in his mouth, which arises from the pre- 
ponderance of his shaven upper Up. Last of 
the deputation comes Willi.\m Banning, an 
energetic-looking, square-shouldered, self-made 
country-man, betiveen fifty and sixty, with grey 
moustaches, ruddy face, and lively brown eyes. 

Katherine. How do you do, Mr. Home? 

Home. {Bowing rather extravagantly over her hand, as 
if to show his independence of women's influence] Mrs. 
More! We hardly expected— — - This is an honour. 

Wage. How do you do. Ma'am? 

Katherine. And you, Mr. Wace? 

Wage. Thank you. Ma'am, well indeed! 

Shelder. How d'you do, Mrs. More? 

Katherine. Very well, thank you, Mr. Shelder. 

Banning. [Speaking with a rather broad country 
accent] This is but a poor occasion. Ma'am. 

Katherine. Yes, Mr. Banning. Do sit down, gen- 
tlemen. 

Seeing that they will not settle down while she is 
standing, she sits at the table. They gradually 
take their seats. Each member of the deputa- 
tion in his own way is severely hanging back 



ACT n THE MOB 29 

from any mention of the subject in hand; and 
E1a.therine as intent on drawing them to it. 

Katherine. My husband will be here in two min- 
utes. He's only over at the House. 

Shelder. [Who is of higher standing and education 
than the others] Charming position — this, Mrs. More! 
So near the — er — Centre of — Gravity — um? 

Katherine. I read the account of your second meet- 
ing at Toulmin. 

Banning. It's bad, Mrs. More — bad. There's no 
disguising it. That speech was moon-summer mad- 
ness — Ah! it was! Take a lot of explaining away. 
Why did you let him, now? Why did you? Not 
your views, I'm sure! 

He looks at her, but for answer she only compresses 
her lips. 

Banning. I tell you what hit me — what's hit the 
whole constituency — and that's his knowing we were 
over the frontier, fighting already, when he made it. 

Katherine. Wliat difference does it make if he did 
know? 

Home. Hitting below the belt — I should have 
thought — you'll pardon me! 

Banning. Till war's begun, Mrs. More, you're en- 
titled to say what you like, no doubt — but after! 
That's going against your country. Ah! his speech 
was strong, you know — his speech was strong. 

Katherine. He had made up his mind to speak. 
It was just an accident the news coming then. 

[A silence. 



30 THE MOB act n 

Banning. Well, that's true, I suppose. What we 
really want is to make sure he won't break out again. 
Home. Very high-minded, his views of course — but, 
some consideration for the common herd. You'U par- 
don me! 

Shelder. We've come with the friendliest feelings, 
Mrs. More — but, you know, it won't do, this sort of 
thing! 

Wace. We shall be able to smooth him down. Oh! 
surely. 

Banning. We'd be best perhaps not to mention 
about his knowing that fighting had begun. 

As he speaks. More enters through the French 
windows. They all rise. 
More. Good-morning, gentlemen. 

He comes doion to the table, but does not offer to 
shake hands. 
Banning. Well, Mr. More? You've made a woeful 
mistake, sir; I tell you to your face. 

More. As everybody else does. Banning. Sit down 
again, please. 

They gradually resume their seats, and More 
sits in Katherine's chair. She alone re- 
main* standing leaning against the corner of 
the bay window, watching their faces. 
Banning. You've seen the morning's telegrams? I 
tell you, Mr. More — another reverse like that, and the 
flood will sweep you clean away. And I'll not blame 
it. It's only flesh and blood. 



ACT n THE MOB 31 

More. Allow for the flesh and blood in tne, too, 
please. When I spoke the other night it was not with- 
out a certain feeling here. [He touches his heart. 

Banning. But your attitude's so sudden — you'd not 
been going that length when you were down with us 
in May. 

More. Do me the justice to remember that even 
then I was against our policy. It cost me three weeks' 
hard struggle to make up my mmd to that speech. 
One comes slowly to these things. Banning. 

Shelder. Case of conscience? 

More. Such things have happened, Shelder, even 
in politics. 

Shelder. You see, our ideals are naturally low — 
how different from yours! 

[More smiles. 
Katherine, icho has draion near her husband, 
moves back again, as if relieved at this gleam of 
geniality. Wage rubs his hands. 

Banning. There's one thing you forget, sir. We 
send you to Parliament, representing us; but you 
couldn't find six men in the whole constituency that 
would have bidden you to make that speech. 

More. I'm sorry; but I can't help my convictions. 
Banning. 

Shelder. What was it the prophet was without in 
his own country? 

Banning. Ah! but we're not funning, Mr. More. 
I've never known feeling run so high. The sentiment 
of both meetings was dead against you. We've had 



32 THE MOB act n 

showers of letters to headquarters. Some from very 
good men — very warm friends of yours. 

Shelder. Come now! It's not too late. Let's go 
back and tell them you won't do it again. 

More. Muzzling order? 

Banning. [Bluntly] That's about it. 

More. Give up my principles to save my Parlia- 
mentary skin. Then, indeed, they might call me a 
degenerate! [He touches the newspapers on the table. 

Kathereste makes an abrupt and painful move- 
ment, then remains as still as before, leaning 
against the corner of the window-seat. 

Banning. Well, well! I know. But we don't ask 
you to take your words back — we only want discretion 
in the future. 

More. Conspiracy of silence! And have it said 
that a mob of newspapers have hounded me to it. 

Banning. They won't say that of you. 

Shelder. My dear More, aren't you rather drop- 
ping to our level.? With your principles you ought 
not to care two straws what people say. 

More. But I do. I can't betray the dignity and 
courage of public men. If popular opinion is to con- 
trol the utterances of her politicians, then good-bye 
indeed to this country! 

Banning. Come now! I won't say that your views 
weren't sound enough before the fighting began. I've 
never liked our policy out there. But our blood's 
being spilled; and that makes all the difference. I 
don't suppose they'd want me exactly, but I'd be ready 



ACT u THE MOB 33 

to go myself. We'd all of us be ready. And we can't 
have the man that represents us talking wild, until 
we've licked these fellows. That's it in a nutshell. 

More. I understand your feeling. Banning. I ten- 
der you my resignation. I can't and won't hold on 
where I'm not wanted. 

Banning. No, no, no! Don't do that! [His accent 
broader and broader] You've 'ad your say, and there it 
is. Coom now! You've been our Member nine years, 
in rain and shine. 

Shelder. We want to keep you. More. Come! 
Give us your promise — that's a good man! 

More. I don't make cheap promises. You ask too 
much. 

[There is silence, and they all look at More, 

Shelder. There are very excellent reasons for the 
Government's policy. 

More. There are always excellent reasons for having 
your way with the weak. 

Shelder. My dear More, how can you get up any 
enthusiasm for those cattle-lifting ruffians? 

More. Better lift cattle than lift freedom. 

Shelder. Well, all we'll ask is that you shouldn't 
go about the country, saying so. 

More. But that is just what I must do. 

[Again they all look at More in consternation. 

Home. Not down our way, you'll pardon me. 

Wage. Really — really, sir 

Shelder. The time of crusades is past. More. 

More. Is it? 



34 THE MOB act ii 

Banning. Ah! no, but we don't want to part with 
you, Mr. More. It's a bitter thing, this, after three 
elections. Look at the 'uman side of it! To speak ill 
of your country when there's been a disaster like this 
terrible business in the Pass. There's your own wife. 
I see her brother's regiment's to start this very after- 
noon. Come now — how must she feel.'^ 

More breaks away to the hay window. The 
Deputation exchange glances. 

More. [Turning] To try to muzzle me like this — is 
going too far. 

Banning. We just want to put you out of tempta- 
tion. 

More. I've held my seat with you in all weathers 
for nine years. You've all been bricks to me. My 
heart's in my work. Banning; I'm not eager to undergo 
political eclipse at forty. 

Shelder. Just so — we don't want to see you in that 
quandary. 

Banning. It'd be no friendliness to give you a wrong 
impression of the state of feeling. Silence — till the 
bitterness is overpast; there's naught else for it, Mr. 
More, while you feel as you do. That tongue of 
yours! Come! You owe us something. You're a 
big man; it's the big view you ought to take. 

More. I am trying to. 

Home. And what precisely is your view — you'll par- 
don my asking? 

More. [Turning on him] Mr. Home — a great co mi- 
try such as ours — is trustee for the highest sentiments 



ACT II THE MOB 35 

of mankind. Do these few outrages justify us in steal- 
ing the freedom of this little people? 

Banning. Steal their freedom! That's rather run- 
ning before the hounds. 

More. Ah, Banning! now we come to it. In your 
hearts you're none of you for that — neither by force 
nor fraud. And yet you all know that we've gone in 
there to stay, as we've gone into other lands — as all 
we big Powers go into other lands, when they're little 
and weak. The Prime Minister's words the other 
night were these: "If we are forced to spend this blood 
and money now, we must never again be forced." 
What does that mean but swallowing this coimtry? 

Shelder. Well, and quite frankly, it'd be no bad 
thing. 

Home. We don't want their wretched country — 
we're forced. 

More. We are not forced. 

Shelder. My dear More, what is civilization but 
the logical, inevitable swallowing up of the lower by 
the higher tj'pes of man? And what else will it be 
here? 

More. We shall not agree there, Shelder; and we 
might argue it all day. But the point is, not whether 
you or I are right — the point is: What is a man who 
holds a faith with all his heart to do? Please tell me. 

[There is a silence. 

Banning. [Simply] I was just thinkin' of those poor 
fellows in the Pass. 

More. I can see them, as well as you, Banning. 



36 THE MOB act n 

But, imagine! Up in our own country — the Black 
Valley — twelve hundred foreign devils dead and dying 
— the crows busy over them — in our own coimtry, our 
own valley — ours — ours — violated. Would you care 
about "the poor fellows" in that Pass? — Invading, 
stealing dogs! Kill them — kill them! You would, 
and I would, too! 

The passion of those words touches and grips as 
no arguments could; and they are silent. 

More. Well! What's the difference out there? 
I'm not so inhuman as not to want to see tliis disaster 
in the Pass wiped out. But once that's done, in spite 
of my affection for you; my ambitions, and they're 
not few; [Very low] in spite of my own wife's feeling, I 
must be free to raise my voice against this war. 

Banning. [Speaking slowly, consulting the others, as it 
were, with his eyes] Mr. More, there's no man I respect 
more than yourself. I can't tell what they'll say down 
there when we go back; but I, for one, don't feel it in 
me to take a hand in pressing you farther against your 
faith. 

Shelder. We don't deny that — that you have a 
case of sorts. 

Wace. No — surely. 

Shelder. A man should be free, I suppose, to hold 
his own opinions. 

More. Thank you, Shelder. 

Banning. Well! well! We must take you as you 

are; but it's a rare pity; there'll be a lot of trouble 

His eyes light on Home, who is leaning forward 



ACT II THE MOB 87 

with hand raised to his ear, listening. Very 
faint, from far in the distance, there is heard a 
skirling sound. All become conscious of it, all 
listen. 

Home. [Suddenly] Bagpipes! 

The figure of Olive flies past the window, out on 
the terrace. Katherine turns, as if to follow 
her, 

Shelder. Highlanders! {He rises. 

Katherine goes quickly out on to the terrace. 
One by one they all follow to the window. One 
by one go out on to the terrace, till More is left 
alone. He turns to the bay window. The music 
is swelling, coming nearer. More leaves the 
window — his face distorted by the strife of his 
emotions. He paces the room, taking, in some 
sort, the rhythm of the march. 
Slowly the music dies away in the distance to a 
drum-tap and the tramp of a company. More 
stops at tJie table, covering his eyes with his 
hands. 
The Deputation troop back across the terrace, 
and come in at tJie French windows. Their 
faces and manners have quite changed. Kath- 
erine follows them as far as the loindow. 

Home. \Tn a strange, almost threatening voice] It 
won't do, Mr. More. Give us your word, to hold your 
peace! 

Shelder. Come! More. 

Wace. Yes, indeed — indeed! 



38 THE MOB act n 

Banning. We must have it. 

MoEE. [Without lifting his head] I — I 



The drum-tap of a regiment marching is heard. 
Banning. Can you hear that go by, man — when 
your country's just been struck? 

Now comes the scuffle and mutter of a following 
crowd. 

More. I give you 

Then, sharp and clear above all other sounds, the 
words: " Give the beggars hell, boys ! " " Wipe 
yoiu" feet on their dirty country!" "Don't 
leave 'em a gory acre ! " And a burst of hoarse 
cheering. 
More. [Flinging up his head] That's reality! By 
Heaven! No! 
Katherine. Oh! 
Shelder. In that case, we'll go. 
Banning. You mean it.'^ You lose us, then! 

[More bows. 

Home. Good riddance [Venomously — his eyes darling 

between More and Katherine]! Go and stump the 

country! Find out what they think of you! You'll 

pardon me! 

One by one, vnthout a word, only Banning looking 
back, they pass out into tlie hall. More sits 
down at the table before the pile of newspapers. 
Katherine, in the window, never moves. 
Olive comes along the terrace to her mother. 
Olive. They were nice ones! Such a lot of dirty 
people following, and some quite clean. Mummy. [Con- 



ACT II THE MOB 39 

sciousfrom her mother's face that something is very wrong, 
she looks at her father, and then steals up to his side] 
Uncle Hubert's gone, Daddy; and Auntie Helen's cry- 
ing. And — look at Mummy! 

[More raises his head and looks. 
Olive. Do be on our side! Do! 

She rubs her cheek against his. Feeling that he 
does not rub his cheek against hers, Olive 
stands away, and looks from him to her mother in 
wonder. 

THE CURTAIN FALLS 



ACT III 

SCENE I 

A cobble-stoned alley, without pavement, behind a sub- 
urban theatre. The tall, bliiid, dingy-yellowish wall 
of the building is plastered with the tattered rem- 
nants of old entertainment bills, and the words: " To 
Let," and with several torn, and one still virgin 
placard, containing this announcement: "Stop-the- 
War Meeting, October \st. Addresses by Stephen 
More, Esq., and others.'" The alley is plentifully 
strewn with refuse and scraps of paper. Three 
stone steps, inset, lead to the stage door. It is a 
dark night, and a street lamp close to the wall throws 
all the light there is. A faint, confused murmur, 
as of distant hooting is heard. Suddenly a boy 
comes running, then two rough girls hurry past in 
the direction of the sound; and the alley is again 
deserted. The stage door opens, and a doorkeeper, 
poking his head out, looks up and down. He with- 
draws, but in a second reappears, preceding three 
black-coated gentlemen. 

Doorkeeper. It's all clear. You can get away 
down here, gentlemen. Keep to the left, then sharp 
to the right, round the corner. 
41 



42 THE MOB act m 

The Three. [Dusting themselves, and settling their 
ties] Thanks, very much! Thanks! 

First Black-Coated Gentleman. Where's More? 
Isn't he coming? 

They are joined by a fourth black-coated Gentle- 
man. 
Fourth Black-Coated Gentleman. Just behind. 
[To the Doorkeeper] Thanks. 

They hurry away. The Doorkeeper retires. 
Another boy runs past. Then the door opens 
again. Steel and More come out. 
More stands hesitating on the steps; then turns 
as if to go back. 
Steel. Come along, sir, come! 
More. It sticks in my gizzard, Steel. 
Steel. [Running his arm through More's, and almost 
dragging him down the steps] You owe it to the theatre 
people. [More still hesitates] We might be penned in 
there another hour; you told Mrs. More half-past 
ten; it'll only make her anxious. And she hasn't 
seen you for six weeks. 

More. All right; don't dislocate my arm. 

They move down the steps, and away to the left, 
as a boy comes running down the alley. Sight- 
ing More, he stops dead, spins round, and 
crying shrilly : "'Ere 'e is! That's 'im! 
'Ere 'e is!" he bolts back in the direction whence 
he came. 
Steel, Quick, sir, quick! 



ACT m THE MOB 43 

More. That is the end of the limit, as the foreign 
ambassador remarked. 

Steel. [Pulling him back towards ike door] Well! 
come inside again, anyway! 

A number of men and boys, and a few young 
girls, are trooping quickly from tlie left. A 
motley crew, out for excitement; loafers, arti- 
sans, navvies ; girls, rough or dubious. All 
in the mood of hunters, and having tasted 
blood. They gather round the steps displaying 
the momentary irresolution and curiosity that 
follows on a new development of any chase. 
More, on the bottom step, turns and eyes 
them. 
A Girl [At the edge] Which is 'im! The old 'un or 
the young? 

[More turns, and mounts the remaining steps. 
Tall Youth. [With lank black hair under a bowler 
hat] You blasted traitor! 

More faces round at the volley of jeering that 
folloios; the chorus of booing swells, then grad- 
ually dies, as if they realized that they were 
spoiling their own sport. 
A Rough Girl. Don't frighten the poor feller! 

[A girl beside her utters a shrill laugh. 
Steel. [Tugging at More's arm] Come along, sir. 
More. [Shaking his arm free — to the crowd] Well, 
what do you want? 
A Voice. Speech. 
More. Indeed! That's new. 



44 THE MOB act m 

Rough Voice. [At the back of the crowd] Look at his 
white liver. You can see it in his face. 

A Big Navvy. [In front] Shut it! Give 'im a 
chanst! 

Tall Youth. Silence for the blasted traitor? 

A youth plays the concertina; there is laughter, 
then an abrupt silence. 
More. You shall have it in a nutshell! 
A Shopboy. [Flinging a walnut-shell which strikes 
More on the shoulder] Here y'are! 

More. Go home, and think! If foreigners invaded 
us, wouldn't you be fighting tooth and nail like those 
tribesmen, out there? 

Tall Youth. Treacherous dogs! Why don't they 
come out in the open? 

More. They fight the best way they can. 

A burst of hooting is led by a soldier in khaki on 
the outskirts. 
More. My friend there in khaki led that hooting. 
I've never said a word against our soldiers. It's the 
Government I condemn for putting them to this, and 
the Press for hounding on the Government, and all of 
you for being led by the nose to do what none of you 
would do, left to yourselves. 

The Tall Youth leads a somewhat unspontane- 
ous burst of execration. 
More. I say not one of you would go for a weaker 
man. 
Voices in the Crowd. 

Rough Voice. Tork sense! 



ACT m THE MOB 45 

Girl's Voice. He's gittin' at you! 
Tall Youth's Voice. Shiny skunk! 

A Navvy. [Suddenly shouldering forward] Look 
'ere, Mister! Don't you come gaflSn' to those who've 
got mates out there, or it'll be the worse for you — you 
go 'ome! 

Cockney Voice. And git your wife to put cotton- 
wool in yer ears. 

[A spurt of laughter. 

A Friendly Voice. [From the outskirts] Shame! 
there! Bravo, More! Keep it up! 

[A scuffle drowns this cry. 

More. [With vehemence] Stop that! Stop that! 
You ! 

Tall Youth. Traitor! 

An Artisan. Wlio black-legged? 

Middle-aged Man. Ought to be shot — backin' his 
country's enemies! 

More. Those tribesmen are defending their homes. 

Two Voices. Hear! hear! 

[They are hustled into silence. 

Tall Youth. Wind-bag! 

More. [With sudden passion] Defending their homes ! 
Not mobbing unarmed men! 

[Steel again pidls at his arm. 

Rough. Shut it, or we'll do you in! 

More. [Recovering his coolness] Ah! Do me in by 
all means! You'd deal such a blow at cowardly mobs 
as wouldn't be forgotten in your time. 

Steel. For God's sake, sir! 



46 THE MOB act m 

More. [Shaking off his touch] Well! 

There is an ugly rush, checked by the fall of the 

foremost figures, thrown too suddenly against 

the bottom step. The crowd recoils. 

There is a momentary lull, and More stares 

steadily down at them. 

Cockney Voice. Don't 'e speak well! "What elo- 



quence 



Two or three nutshells and a piece of orange-peel 
strike More across the face. He takes no 
notice. 
Rough Voice. That's it! Give 'im some encourage- 
ment. 

The jeering laughter is changed to anger by the 
contemptuous smile on More's face. 
A Tall Youth. Traitor! 
A Voice. Don't stand there like a stuck pig. 
A Rough. Let's 'ave 'im dahn off that! 

Under cover of the applause that greets this, he 
strikes More across the legs with a belt. Steel 
starts forward. More, flinging out his arm, 
turns him back, and resumes his tranquil star- 
ing at the crowd, in whom the sense of being 
foiled by this silence is fast turning to rage. 
The Crowd. Speak up, or get down! Get off! 
Get away, there — or we'll make you! Go on! 

[More remains immovable. 
A Youth. [In a lull of disconcertion] I'll make 'im 
speak! See! 



ACT m THE MOB 47 

He darts forward and spits, defiling More's 
hand. More jerks it up as if it had been 
stung, then stands as still as ever. A spurt of 
laughter dies into a shiver of repugnance at the 
action. The shame is fanned again to fury by 
the sight of More's scornful face. 
Tall Youth. [Out of murmuring] Shift! or you'll 
get it! 
A Voice. Enough of your ugly mug! 
A Rough. Give 'im one! 

Two flung stones strike More. He staggers and 
nearly falls, then rights himself. 
A Girl's Voice. Shame! 
Friendly Voice. Bravo, More! Stick to it! 
A Rough. Give 'im another! 
A Voice. No! 

A Girl's Voice. Let 'im alone ! Come on, Billy, 
this ain't no fun! 

Still looking up at More, the whole crowd falls 
into an uneasy silence, broken only by the 
shuffling of feet. Then the Big Navvy in the 
front rank turns and elboios his way out to the 
edge of the crowd. 
The Navvy. Let 'im be! 

With half-sullen and half-shamefaced acquies- 
cence the crowd breaks up and drifts back 
whence it came, till the alley is nearly empty. 
More. {As if coming to, out of a trance — wiping his 
hand and dusting his coat] Well, Steel! 



THE MOB ACT in 

And followed by Steel, he descends the steps and 
moves away. Tioo policeinen pass glancing up 
at the broken glass. One of them stops and 
makes a note. 

THE CURTAIN FALLS. 



SCENE II 

The window-end of Katheeine's bedroom, panelled in 
cream-coloured wood. The light from four candles 
is falling on Katherine, who is sitting before the 
silver mirror of an old oak dressing-table, brushing 
her hair. A door, on the left, stands ajar. An oak 
chair against the wall close to a recessed window is 
all the other furniture. Through this window the 
blue night is seen, where a mist is rolled out flat 
amongst trees, so that only dark clumps of boughs 
show here and there, beneath a moonlit sky. As the 
curtain rises, Katherine, ^oith brush arrested, is 
listening. She begins again brushing her hair, then 
stops, and taking a packet of letters from a drawer 
of her dressing-table, reads. Through the just open 
door behind her comes the voice of Olive. 

Olive. Mummy! I'm awake! 

But Katherine goes on reading; and Olive 
steals into the room in her nightgown. 

Olive. [At Katherine's elbow — examining her watch 
on its stand] It's fourteen minutes to eleven. 

Katherine. Olive, Olive! 



ACT in 



THE MOB 49 



Olive. I just wanted to see the time. I never can 
go to sleep if I try — it's quite helpless, you know. Is 
there a victory yet.'' [Katherine shakes her head] 
Oh! I prayed extra special for one in the evening 
papers. [Straying round her mother] Hasn't Daddy 
come? 

Katherine. Not yet. 

Olive. Are you waiting for him? [Burying her face 
in her mother's hair] Your hair is nice, Mummy. It's 
particular to-night. 

Katherine lets fall her brush, and looks at her 
almost in alarm. 

Olive. How long has Daddy been away? 

Katherine. Six weeks. 

Olive. It seems about a hundred years, doesn't it? 
Has he been making speeches all the time? 

Katherine. Yes. 

Olive. To-night, too? 

Katherine. Yes. 

Olive. The night that man was here whose head's 
too bald for anything — oh! Mummy, you know — the 
one who cleans his teeth so termendously — I heard 
Daddy making a speech to the wind. It broke a 
wine-glass. His speeches must be good ones, mustn't 
they! 

Katherine. Very. 

Olive. It felt funny; you couldn't see any wind, 
you know. 

Katherine. Talking to the wind is an expression, 
Olive. 



50 THE MOB act in 

Olive. Does Daddy often? 

Katherine. Yes, nowadays. 

Olive. What does it mean? 

Katherine. Speaking to people who won't listen. 

Olive. What do they do, then? 

Katherine. Just a few people go to hear him, and 
then a great crowd comes and breaks in; or they wait 
for him outside, and throw things, and hoot. 

Olive. Poor Daddy! Is it people on our side who 
throw things? 

Katherine. Yes, but only rough people. 

Olive. Why does he go on doing it? I shouldn't. 

Katherine. He thinks it is his duty. 

Olive. To your neighbour, or only to God? 

Katherine. To both. 

Olive. Oh! Are those his letters? 

Katherine. Yes. 

Olive. [Reading from the letter] "My dear Heart." 
Does he always call you his dear heart. Mummy? It's 
rather jolly, isn't it? "I shall be home about half-past 
ten to-morrow night. For a few hours the fires of 

p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y will cease to burn " What are the 

fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y? 

Katherine. [Putting away the letters] Come, Olive! 

Olive. But what are they? 

Katherine. Daddy means that he's been very un- 
happy. 

Olive. Have you, too? 

Katherine. Yes. 



ACT m THE MOB 51 

Olive. [Cheerfully] So have I. May I open the 
window? 

Katherine. No; you'll let the mist in. 

Olive. Isn't it a funny mist — all flat! 

Katherine. Now, come along, frog! 

Olive. [Making time] Mummy, when is Uncle Hu- 
bert coming back.'' 

Katherine. We don't know, dear. 

Olive. I suppose Auntie Helen'U stay with us till 
he does. 

Katherine. Yes. 

Olive. That's something, isn't it? 

Katherine. [Picking her up] Now then! 

Olive. [Deliciously limp] Had I better put in the 
duty to your neighbour — if there isn't a victory soon? 
[As they pass through the door] You're tickling under 
my knee! [Little gurgles of pleasure follow. Then 
silence. Then a drowsy voice] I mu^t keep awake for 
Daddy. 

E1A.THERINE comes back. She is about to leave 
the door a little open, when she hears a knock 
on the other door. It is opened a few inches, 
and Nurse's voice says: "Can I come in. 
Ma'am?" The "Njirse comes in. 

Katherine. [Shutting Olive's door, and going up to 
her] What is it. Nurse? 

Nurse. [Speaking in a low voice] I've been meaning 
to — I'll never do it in the daytime. I'm giving you 
notice. 



52 THE MOB act m 

Katherine. Nurse ! You too I 

She looks towards Olive's room with dismay. 
The Nurse smudges a slow tear away from her 
cheek. 

Nurse. I want to go right away at once. 

Katherine. Leave Olive! That is the sins of the 
fathers with a vengeance. 

Nurse. I've had another letter from my son. No, 
Miss Katherine, while the master goes on upholdin' 
these murderin' outlandish creatures, I can't live in 
this house, not now he's coming back. 

Katherine. But, Nurse ! 

Nurse. It's not like them [With an ineffable gesture] 
downstairs, because I'm frightened of the mob, or of 
the window's bein' broke again, or mind what the 
boys in the street say. I should think not — no! It's 
my heart. I'm sore night and day thinkin' of my son, 
and him lying out there at night without a rag of dry 
clothing, and water that the bullocks won't drink, and 
maggots in the meat; and every day one of his friends 
laid out stark and cold, and one day — 'imself perhaps. 
If anything were to 'appen to him, I'd never forgive 
meself— here. Ah! Miss Katherine, I wonder how 
you bear it — bad news comin' every day — And Sir 
John's face so sad — And all the time the master 
speaking against us, as it might be Jonah 'imself. 

Katherine. But, Nurse, how can you leave us, 
you? 

Nurse. [Smudging at her cheeks] There's that tells 
me it's encouragin' something to happen, if I stay here; 



ACT III THE MOB 53 

and Mr. More coming back to-night. You can't serve 
God and Mammon, the Bible says. 

ELa^therine. Don't you know what it's costing him? 

Nurse. Ah! Cost him his seat, and his reputation; 
and more than that it'll cost him, to go against the 
country. 

Katherine. He's following his conscience. 

Nurse. And others must follow theirs, too. No, 
Miss Katherine, for you to let him — you, with your 
three brothers out there, and your father fair wasting 
away with grief. Sufferin' too as you've been these 
three months past. What'll you feel if anything hap- 
pens to my three young gentlemen out there, to my 
dear Mr. Hubert that I nursed myself, when your 
precious mother couldn't? What would she have said 
— with you in the camp of his enemies? 

Katherine. Nurse, Nurse! 

Nurse. In my paper they say he's encouraging these 
heathens and makin' the foreigners talk about us; and 
every day longer the war lasts, there's our blood on 
this house. 

Katherine. [Turning away] Nurse, I can't — I won't 
listen. 

Nurse. [Looking at her intently] Ah! You'll move 
him to leave off! I see your heart, my dear. But if 
you don't, then go I must! 

She nods her head gravely, goes to the door of 
Olive's room, opens it gently, stands looking 
for a moment, then with the words "My Lamb!" 
she goes in noiselessly and closes the door. 



54 THE MOB act m 

Katherine turns back to her glass, puts back her 
hair, and smooths her lips and eyes. The door 
from, the corridor is opened, and Helen's voice 
says: "Kit! You're not in bed?" 
Katherine. No. 

Helen too is in a wrapper, with a piece of lace 
thrown over her head. Her face is scared and 
miserable, and she runs into Katherene's 
arms. 
Katherine. My dear, what is it.^* 
Helen. I've seen — a vision! 
Katherine. Hssh! You'll wake Olive! 
Helen. [Staring before her] I'd just fallen asleep, 
and I saw a plain that seemed to run into the sky — 
like — that fog. And on it there were — dark things. 
One grew into a body without a head, and a gun by 
its side. And one was a man sitting huddled up, 
nursing a wounded leg. He had the face of Hubert's 
servant, Wreford. And then I saw — Hubert. His 
face was all dark and thin; and he had — a wound, an 
awful wound here [She touches her breast]. The blood 
was running from it, and he kept trying to stop it — 
oh! Kit — by kissing it [She pauses, stifled by emotion]. 
Then I heard Wreford laugh, and say vultures didn't 
touch live bodies. And there came a voice, from some- 
where, calling out: "Oh! God! I'm dying!" And 
Wreford began to swear at it, and I heard Hubert 
say: "Don't, Wreford; let the poor fellow be!" But 
the voice went on and on, moaning and crying out: 
"I'll lie here all night dying — and then I'll die!" And 



ACT III THE MOB 55 

Wreford dragged himself along the ground; his face 
all devilish, like a man who's going to kill. 

Katheeine. My dear! How ghastly! 

Helen. Still that voice went on, and I saw Wreford 
take up the dead man's gun. Then Hubert got upon 
his feet, and went tottering along, so feebly, so dread- 
fully — but before he could reach and stop him, Wre- 
ford fired at the man who was crying. And Hubert 
called out: "You brute!" and fell right down. And 
when Wreford saw him lying there, he began to moan 
and sob, but Hubert never stirred. Then it all got 
black again — and I could see a dark woman-thing 
creeping, first to the man without a head; then to Wre- 
ford; then to Hubert, and it touched him, and sprang 
away. And it cried out: "A — ai — ah!" [Pointing out 
at the mist] Look! Out there! The dark things! 

Katherine. [Putting her arms round her] Yes, dear, 
yes! You must have been looking at the mist. 

Helen. [Strangely calm] He's dead! 

Katherine. It was only a dream. 

Helen. You didn't hear that cry. [She listens] 
That's Stephen. Forgive me. Kit; I oughtn't to have 
upset you, but I couldn't help coming. 

She goes out. Katherine, into whom her ermy 
Hon seerns to have passed, turns feverishly to 
the window, throxos it open and leans out. 
More com^s in. 

More. Kit! 

Catching sight of her figure in the window, he goes 
quickly to her. 



56 THE MOB act m 

Katherine. Ah! [She has mastered her emotion. 

More. Let me look at you! 

He draws her from the window to the candle-light, 
and looks long at her. 

More. What have you done to your hair? 

Katherine. Nothing. 

More. It's wonderful to-night. 

He takes it greedily and buries his face in it. 

Kathereste. [Drawing her hair away] Well? 

More. At last! 

Katherine. [Pointing to Olive's room] Hssh! 

More. How is she? 

Katherine. All right. 

More. And you? 

[Katherine shrugs her shoulders. 

More. Six weeks! 

Katherine. Why have you come? 

More. Why! 

Katherine. You begin again the day after to- 
morrow. Was it worth while? 

More. Kit! 

Katherine. It makes it harder for me, that's all. 

More. [Staring at her] What's come to you? 

Katherine. Six weeks is a long time to sit and read 
about your meetings. 

More. Put that away to-night. [He touches her] This 
is what travellers feel when they come out of the 
desert to — water. 

Katherine. [Suddenly noticing the cut on his fore- 
head] Your forehead! It's cut. 

More. It's nothing. 



ACT m 



THE MOB 57 



Katherine. Oh! Let me bathe it! 
More. No, dear! It's all right. 
Katherine. [Turning away] Helen has just been 
telling me a dream she's had of Hubert's death. 
More. Poor child ! 

Katherine. Dream bad dreams, and wait, and hide 
oneself — there's been nothing else to do. Nothing, 
Stephen — nothing ! 
More. Hide? Because of me? 

[Katherine nods. 
More. [With a movement of distress] I see. I 
thought from your letters you were coming to feel — . 
Kit! You look so lovely ! 

Suddenly he sees that she is crying, and goes 
quickly to her. 
More. My dear, don't cry! God knows I don't 
want to make things worse for you. I'll go away. 

She draws away from him a little, and after looking 

long at her, he sits down at the dressing-table 

and begins turning over the brushes and articles 

of toilet, trying to find words. 

More. Never look forward. After the time I've 

had — I thought — to-night — it would be summer — I 

thought it would be you — and everything! 

While he is speaking Katherine has stolen closer. 
She suddenly drops on her knees by his side and 
wraps his hand in her hair. He turns and clasps 
her. 
More. Kit! 

Katherine! Ah! yes! But — to-morrow it begins 
again. Oh! Stephen! How long — how long am I to 



58 THE MOB act hi 

be torn in two? [Drawing back in his arms] I can't — 
can't bear it. 

More. My darling! 

Katherine. Give it up! For my sake! Give it 
up! [Pressing closer to him] It shall be me — and every- 
thing 

More. God! 

Kathereste. It shall be — if — if 

More. [Aghast] You're not making terms? Bar- 
gaining? For God's sake, Kit! 

Katherine. For God's sake, Stephen! 
More. You! — of all people — you! 
Katherine. Stephen! 

For a moment More yields utterly, then shrinks 
back. 
More. A bargain! It's seUing my soul ! 

He struggles out of her arms, gets up, and stands 
without speaking, staring at her, and wiping 
the sweat from his forehead. Katherine re- 
mains some seconds on her knees, gazing up at 
him, not realizing. Then her head droops; she 
too gets up and stands apart, with her wrapper 
drawn close round her. It is as if a cold and 
deadly shame had come to them both. Quite 
suddenly More turns, and, without looking 
back, feebly makes his way out of the room. 
When he is gone Katherine drops on her knees 
and remains there motionless, huddled in her 
hair. 

the curtain falls 



ACT IV 

It is between lights, the following day, in the dining-room 
of More's house. The windows are closed, hut cur- 
tains are not drawn. Steel is seated at the bureau, 
writing a letter from More's dictation. 

Steel. [Reading over the letter] "No doubt we shall 
have trouble. But, if the town authorities at the last 
minute forbid the use of the hall, we'll hold the meeting 
in the open. Let bills be got out, and an audience will 
collect in any case." 

More. They will. 

Steel. "Yours truly"; I've signed for you. 

[More nods. 

Steel. [Blotting and enveloping the letter] You know 
the servants have all given notice — except Henry. 

More. Poor Henry! 

Steel. It's partly nerves, of course — the windows 
have been broken twice — but it's partly 

More. Patriotism. Quite! they'll do the next 
smashing themselves. That reminds me — to-morrow 
you begin holiday, Steel. 

Steel. Oh, no! 

More. My dear fellow — yes. Last night ended 
your sulphur cure. Truly sorry ever to have let you 
in for it. 

59 



60 THE MOB act iv 

Steel. Some one must do the work. You're half 
dead as it is. 

More. There's lots of kick in me. 
Steel. Give it up, sir. The odds are too great. It 
isn't worth it. 

More. To fight to a finish; knowing you must be 
beaten — is anything better worth it.^* 
Steel. Well, then, I'm not going. 
More. This is my private hell. Steel; you don't 
roast In it any longer. Believe me, it's a great comfort 
to hurt no one but yourself. 
Steel. I can't leave you, sir. 

More. My dear boy, you're a brick — but we've 
got off by a miracle so far, and I can't have the respon- 
sibility of you any longer. Hand me over that corre- 
spondence about to-morrow's meeting. 

Steel takes some papers from his pocket, hut does 

not hand them. 

More. Come! [He stretches out his hand for the 

papers. As Steel still draws back, he says more sharply] 

Give them to me. Steel ! [Steel hands them over] Now, 

that ends it, d'you see? 

They stand looking at each other; then Steel, 
very much upset, turns and goes out of the room. 
More, who has watched him with a sorry smile, 
puts the papers into a dispatch-case. As he is 
closing the bureau, the footman Henry enters, 
announcing: "Mr. Mendip, sir." Mendip 
comes in, and the Footman withdraws. More 
turns to his visitor, but does not hold out his hand. 



ACT IV THE MOB 61 

Mendip. [Taking More's hand] Give me credit for 
a little philosophy, my friend. Mrs. More told me 
you'd be back to-day. Have you heard? 

More. What.^ 

Mendip. There's been a victory. 

More. Thank God! 

Mendip. Ah! So you actually are flesh and blood. 

More. Yes! 

Mendip. Take off the martyr's shirt, Stephen. 
You're only flouting human nature. 

More. So — even you defend the mob! 

Mendip. My dear fellow, you're up against the 
strongest common instinct in the world. What do 
you expect? That the man in the street should be a 
Quixote? That his love of country should express 
itself in philosophic altruism? What on earth do you 
expect? Men are very simple creatures; and Mob is 
just conglomerate essence of simple men. 

More. Conglomerate ea:crescence. Mud of street 
and market-place gathered in a torrent — This blind 
howling "patriotism" — what each man feels in here? 
[He touches his breast] No! 

Mendip. You think men go beyond instinct — they 
don't. All they know is that something's hurting that 
image of themselves that they call country. They just 
feel something big and religious, and go it blind. 

More. This used to be the country of free speech. 
It used to be the country where a man was expected 
to hold to his faith. 

Mendip. There are limits to human nature, Stephen. 



62 THE MOB act iv 

MoBE. Let no man stand to his guns in face of 
popular attack. Still your advice, is it? 

Mendip. My advice is: Get out of town at once. 
The torrent you speak of will be let loose the moment 
this news is out. Come, my dear fellow, don't stay 
here! 

More. Thanks! I'll see that Katharine and Olive 
go. 

Mendip. Go with them! If your cause is lost, 
that's no reason why you should be. 

More. There's the comfort of not running away. 
And— I want comfort. 

Mendip. This is bad, Stephen; bad, foolish — foolish. 
Well! I'm going to the House. This way.f* 

More. Down the steps, and through the gate. 
Good-bye? 

ICa.therine has come in followed by Nurse, 
hatted and cloaked, with a small bag in her hand. 
Katherine takes from the bureau a cheque 
which she hands to the Nurse. More covies in 
from the terrace. 

More. You're wise to go. Nurse. 

Nurse. You've treated my poor dear badly, sir. 
Where's your heart? 

More. In full use. 

Nurse. On those heathens. Don't your own hearth 
and home come first? Your wife, that was born in 
time of war, with her own father fighting, and her 
grandfather killed for his country. A bitter thing. 



ACT IV THE MOB 63 

to have the windows of her house broken, and be 
pointed at by the boys in the street. 

More stands silent under this attack, looking at 
his wife. 
Katherine. Nurse! 

Nurse. It's unnatural, sir — what you're doing! To 
think more of those savages than of your own wife! 
Look at her! Did you ever see her look like that? 
Take care, sir, before it's too late! 
More. Enough, please! 

Nurse stands for a moment doubtful; looks long at 
Katherine; then goes. 
More. [Quietly] There has been a victory. 

[He goes out. 
Katherine is breathing fast, listening to the dis- 
tant hum and stir rising in the street. She 
runs to the loindow as the footman, Henry, 
entering, says: "Sir John Julian, Ma'am!" 
Sir John comes in, a newspaper in his hand. 
Katherine. At last! A victory! 
Sir John. Thank God ! [He hands her the paper. 

Katherine. Oh, Dad! 

She tears the paper open, and feverishly reads. 
Katherine. At last! 

The distant hum in the street is rising steadily. 

But Sir John, after the one exultant moment 

when he handed her the paper, stares dumbly 

at the floor. 

Katherine. [Suddenly conscious of his gravity] 

Father! 



64 THE MOB act iv 

Sir John. There is other news. 
Katherine. One of the boys? Hubert? 

[Sir John bows his head. 
Katherine. Killed? 

[Sir John again bows his head. 
Katherine. The dream! [She covers her face] Poor 
Helen! 

They stand for a few seconds silent, then Sir John 
raises his head, and putting up a haiid, touches 
her wet cheek. 

Sir John. [Huskily] Whom the gods love 

Katherine. Hubert! 
Sir John. And hulks like me go on living! 
Katherine. Dear Dad! 

Sir John. But we shall drive the ruffians now! We 
shall break them. Stephen back? 
Katherine. Last night. 

Sir John. Has he finished his blasphemous speech- 
making at last? [Katherine shakes her head] Not? 

Then, seeing that Katherine is quivering with 
emotion, he strokes her hand. 
Sm John. My dear! Death is in many houses! 
Katherine. I must go to Helen. Tell Stephen, 
Father. I can't. 
Sir John. If you wish, child. 

She goes out, leaving Sir John to his grave, puz- 
zled grief; and in a few seconds More comes in. 
More. Yes, Sir John. You wanted me? 
Sir John. Hubert is killed. 
More. Hubert! 



ACT IV THE MOB 65 

Sir John. By these — whom you uphold. Katherine 
asked me to let you know. She's gone to Helen. I 
understand you only came back last night from 

your No word I can use would give what I feel 

about that. I don't know how things stand now be- 
tween you and Katherine; but I tell you this, Ste- 
phen: you've tried her these last two months beyond 
what any woman ought to bear! 

[More makes a gesture of pain. 

Sir John. When you chose your course 

More. Chose! 

Sir John. You placed yourself in opposition to 
every feeling in her. You knew this might come. It 
may come again with another of my sons 

More. I would willingly change places with any 
one of them. 

Sir John. Yes — I can believe in your unhappiness. 
I cannot conceive of greater misery than to be arrayed 
against your country. If I could have Hubert back, 
I would not have him at such a price — no, nor all my 

sons. Pro patrid mori My boy, at all events, is 

happy! 

More. Yes! 

Sir John, Yet you can go on doing what you are! 
What devil of pride has got into you, Stephen? 

More. Do you imagine I think myself better than 
the humblest private fighting out there? Not for a 
minute. 

Sm John. I don't understand you. I always thought 
you devoted to Katherine. 



66 THE MOB act iv 

More. Sir John, you believe that country comes 
before wife and child? 

Sib John. I do. 

More. So do I. 

Sir John. [Bewildered] Whatever my country does 
or leaves undone, I no more presume to judge her than 
I presume to judge my God, [With all the exaltation of 
the suffering he has undergone for her] My country! 

More. I would give all I have — for that creed. 

Sir John. [Puzzled] Stephen, I've never looked on 
you as a crank; I always believed you sane and honest. 
But this is — visionary mania. 

More. Vision of what might be. 

Sir John. Why can't you be content with what the 
grandest nation — the grandest men on earth — have 
found good enough for them? I've known them, I've 
seen what they could suffer, for our country. 

More. Sir John, imagine what the last two months 
have been to me! To see people turn away in the 
street — old friends pass me as if I were a wall! To 
dread the post! To go to bed every night with the 
sound of hooting in my ears ! To know that my name 
is never referred to without contempt 

Sir John. You have your new friends. Plenty of 
them, I understand. 

More. Does that make up for being spat at as I 
was last night? Your battles are fool's play to it. 

The stir and rustle of the crowd in the street grows 
louder. Sir John turns his head towards it. 

Sm John. You've heard there's been a victory. Do 



ACT IV THE MOB 67 

you carry your unnatural feeling so far as to be sorry 
for that? [More shakes his head] That's something! 
For God's sake, Stephen, stop before it's gone past 
mending. Don't ruin your life with Katherine. Hu- 
bert was her favourite brother; you are backing those 
who killed him. Think what that means to her! 
Drop this — mad Quixotism — idealism — whatever you 
call it. Take Katherine away. Leave the country 
till the thing's over — this country of yours that you're 
opposing, and — ^and — traducing. Take her away! 
Come! What good are you doing? What earthly 
good? Come, my boy! Before you're utterly undone. 

More. Sir John! Our men are dying out there for 
the faith that's in them! I believe my faith the 

higher, the better for mankind Am I to slink 

away? Since I began this campaign I've found hun- 
dreds who've thanked me for taking this stand. They 
look on me now as their leader. Am I to desert them? 
When you led your forlorn hope — did you ask yourself 
what good you were doing, or whether you'd come 
through alive? It's my forlorn hope not to betray 
those who are following me; and not to help let die a 
fire — a fire that's sacred — not only now in this country, 
but in all countries, for all time. 

Sir John. [After a long stare] I give you credit for 
believing what you say. But let me tell you what- 
ever that fire you talk of — I'm too old-fashioned to 
grasp — one fire you are letting die — your wife's love. 
By God! This crew of your new friends, this crew of 
cranks and jays, if they can make up to you for the 



68 THE MOB act iv 

loss of her love — of your career, of all those who used 
to like and respect you — so much the better for you. 
But if you find yourself bankrupt of afifection — alone 
as the last man on earth; if this business ends in your 
utter ruin and destruction — as it must — I shall not 
pity — I cannot pity you. Good-night! 

He marches to the door, opens it, and goes out. 
More is left standing perfectly still. The stir 
and murmur of the street is growing all the time, 
and slowly forces itself on his consciousness. He 
goes to the bay window and looks out; then rings 
the bell. It is not answered, and, after turning 
up the lights, he rings again. Katherine 
comes in. She is wearing a black hat, and black 
outdoor coat. She speaks coldly without looking 
up. 
Katherine. You rang! 
More. For them to shut this room up. 
Katherine. The servants have gone out. They're 
afraid of the house being set on fire. 
More. I see. 

Katherine. They have not your ideals to sustain 
them. [More vxinces] I am going with Helen and 
Olive to Father's. 

More. [Trying to take in the exact sense of her words] 
Good! You prefer that to an hotel? [Katherine nods. 
Gently] Will you let me say, Kit, how terribly I feel 

for you — Hubert's 

Katherine. Don't. I ought to have made what I 
meant plainer. I am not coming back. 



THE MOB 69 



More. Not ? Not while the house 

Katherine. Not — at all. 

More. Kit! 

Katherine. I warned you from the first. You've 
gone too far! 

More. [Terribly moved] Do you understand what 
this means? After ten years — and all — our love! 

Katherine. Was it love? How could you ever have 
loved one so unheroic as myself! 

More. This is madness, Kit — Kit! 

Katherine. Last night I was ready. You couldn't. 
If you couldn't then, you never can. You are very 
exalted, Stephen. I don't like living — I won't live, 
with one whose equal I am not. This has been coming 
ever since you made that speech. I told you that 
night what the end would be. 

More. [Trying to put his arms round her] Don't be so 
terribly cruel! 

Katherine. No! Let's have the truth! People so 
wide apart don't love! Let me go! 

More. In God's name, how can I help the difference 
in our faiths? 

Katherine. Last night you used the word — bar- 
gain. Quite right. I meant to buy you. I meant 
to kill your faith. You showed me what I was doing. 
I don't like to be shown up as a driver of bargains, 
Stephen. 

More. God knows — I never meant 

Katherine. If I'm not yours in spirit — I don't 
choose to be vour — mistress. 



70 THE MOB act iv 

More, as if lashed by a tchip, has thrown up his 
hands in an attitude of defence. 
Katherine. Yes, that's cruel ! It shows the heights 
you Hve on. I won't drag you down. 

IMoRE. For God's sake, put your pride away, and 
see! I'm fighting for the faith that's in me. What 
else can a man do? What else? Ah! Kit! Do see! 

Katherine. I'm strangled here! Doing nothing — 
sitting silent — when my brothers are fighting, and being 
killed. I shall try to go out nursing. Helen will come 
with me. I have my faith, too; my poor common love 
of country. I can't stay here with you. I spent last 
night on the floor — thinking — and I know! 
More. And Olive? 

Katherine. I shall leave her at Father's, with 
Nurse; unless you forbid me to take her. You can. 

More. [Icily] That I shall not do — you know very 
well. You are free to go, and to take her. 

Katherine. [Very low] Thank you! [Suddenly she 
turns to him, and draws his eyes on her. Without a 
sound, she puts her lohole strength into that look] Stephen! 
Give it up! Come down to me! 

The festive sounds from the street grow louder. 
There can be heard the blowing of whistles, and 
bladders, and all the sounds of joy. 
More. And drown in — that? 

Katherine turns swiftly to the door. There she 
stands and again looks at him. Her face is 
mysterious, from the conflicting currents of her 
emotions. 



ACT IV THE MOB 71 

More. So — you're going? 
Katherine. [In a whisper] Yes. 

She bends her head, opens the door, and goes. 
More starts forward as if to follow her, but 
Olive has appeared in the doorway. She has 
on a straight little white coat and a round white 
cap. 
Olive. Aren't you coming with us. Daddy? 

[More shakes his head. 
Olive. Why not? 

More. Never mind, my dicky bird. 
Olive. The motor'll have to go very slow. There 
are such a lot of people in the street. Are you staying 
to stop them setting the house on fire? [More nods] 
May I stay a little, too? [More shakes his head] Why? 
More. [Putting his hand on her head] Go along, my 
pretty! 

Olive. Oh! love me up. Daddy! 

[More takes and loves her up 
Olive. Oo-o! 
More. Trot, my soul! 

She goes, looks back at him, turns suddenly, and 

vanishes. 
More follows her to the door, but stops there. 
Then, as full realization begins to dawn on him, 
he rtiTis to the bay window, craning his head to 
catch sight of the front door. There is the sound 
of a vehicle starting, and the continual hooting 
of its horn as it makes its way among the crowd. 
He turns from the window. 



72 THE MOB act iv 

More. Alone as the last man on earth! 

Suddenly a voice rises clear out of the hurly-burly 
in the street. 

Voice. There 'e is! That's 'im! More! Traitor! 
More! 

A shower of nutshells, orange-peel, and harmless 
missiles begins to rattle against the glass of the 
window. Many voices take up the groaning: 
"More! Traitor! Black-leg! More!" And 
through the window can be seen waving flags 
and lighted Chinese lanterns, swinging high on 
long bamboos. The din of execration swells. 
More stands unheeding, still gazing after the 
cab. Then, with a sharp crack, a flung stone 
crashes through one of the panes. It is followed 
by a hoarse shout of laughter, and a hearty groan. 
A second stone crashes through the glass. More 
turns for a moment, with a contemptuous look, 
towards the street, and the flare of the Chinese 
lanterns lights tip his face. Then, as if forget- 
ting all about the din outside, he moves back into 
the room, looks round him, and lets his head 
droop. The din rises louder and louder; a third 
stone crashes through. More raises his head 
again, and, clasping his hands, looks straight 
before him. The footman, Henry, entering, 
hastens to the French windows. 

More. Ah! Henry, I thought you'd gone. 

Footman. I came back, sir. 

More. Good fellow! 



ACT IV THE MOB 73 

Footman. They're trying to force the terrace gate, 
sir. They've no business coming on to private prop- 
erty — no matter what! 

In the surging entrance of the mob the footman, 
Henry, who shows fight, is overwhelmed, 
hustled out into the crowd on the terrace, and no 
more seen. The Mob is a mixed crowd of 
revellers of both sexes, medical students, clerks, 
shop men and girls, and a Boy Scout or two. 
Many have exchanged hats — some wear masks, 
or false noses, some carry feathers or tin whistles. 
Some, with bamboos and Chinese lanterns, 
swing them up outside on the terrace. The 
medley of noises is very great. Such ring- 
leaders 05 exist in the confusion ere a Group 
of Students, the chief of whom, conspicuous 
because unadorned, is an athletic, hatless young 
man with a projecting underjaw, and heavy 
coal-black moustache, who seems with the swing 
of his huge arms and shoulders to sway the cur- 
rents of motion. When the first surge of noise 
and movement subsides, he calls out: "To him, 
boys! Chair the hero!" The Students 
rush at the impassive More, swing him roughly 
on to their shoulders and bear him round the 
room. When they have twice circled the table 
to the mu^ic of their confused singing, groans 
and whistling. The Chief of the Students 
calls out: "Put him down!" Obediently they 
set him down on the table which has been forced 



74 THE MOB act iv 

into the bay window, and stand gaping up at 
him. 

Chief Student. Speech! Speech! 

The noise ebbs, and More looks round him. 

Chief Stitdent. Now then, you, sir. 

More. [In a quiet voice] Very well. You are here 
by the law that governs the action of all mobs — the 
law of Force. By that law, you can do what you like 
to this body of mine. 

A Voice. And we will, too. 

More. I don't doubt it. But before that, I've a 
word to say. 

A Voice. You've always that. 

[Another Voice raises a donkey's braying. 

More. You — Mob — are the most contemptible thing 
under the sun. When you walk the street — God goes 
in. 

Chief Student. Be careful, you — sir. 

Voices. Down him! Down with the beggar! 

More. [Above the murmurs] My fine friends, I'm 
not afraid of you. You've forced your way into my 
house, and you've asked me to speak. Put up with 
the truth for once! [His words rush out] You are the 
thing that pelts the weak; kicks women; howls down 
free speech. This to-day, and that to-morrow. Brain 
— you have none. Spirit — not the ghost of it! If 
you're not meanness, there's no such thing. If you're 
not cowardice, there is no cowardice [Above the grow- 
ing fierceness of the hubbub] Patriotism — there are two 



ACT IV THE MOB 75 

kinds — that of our soldiers, and this of mine. You 
have neither! 

Chief Student. [Checkhig a dangerous rmh] Hold 
on! Hold on! [To More] Swear to utter no more 
blasphemy against your country: Swear it! 
Crowd. Ah! Ay! Ah! 

More. My country is not yours. Mine is that great 
country which shall never take toll from the weakness 
of others. [Above the groaning] Ah! you can break my 
head and my windows; but don't think that you can 
break my faith. You could never break or shake it, 
if you were a million to one. 

A girl with dark eyes and hair all wild, leaps out 

from the crowd and shakes her fist at him. 

Girl. You're friends with them that killed my lad! 

[More smiles down at her, and she swiftly plucks the 

knife from the belt of a Boy Scout beside her] Smile, 

you — cur! 

A violent rush and heave from behind flings More 
forward on to the steel. He reels, staggers back, 
and falls down amongst the crowd. A scream, 
a sway, a rush, a hubbub of cries. The Chief 
Student shouts above the riot: "Steady!" 
Another: "My God! He's got it!" 
Chief Student. Give him air! 

The croivd falls back, and two Students, bending 
over More, lift his arms and head, but they fall 
like lead. Desperately they test him for life. 
Chief Student. By the Lord, it's over! 

Then begins a scared swaying out towards the 



76 THE MOB act iv 

vyindow. Some one turns out tlie lights^ and in 
the darkness the crowd fast melts away. The 
body of More lies in the gleam from a single 
Chinese lantern. Muttering the words: "Poor 
devil! He kept his end up anyway!" the 
Chief Student picks from the floor a little 
abandoned Union Jack and lays it on More's 
breast. Then he, too, turns, and rushes out. 
And the body of More lies in the streak of light; 
and the noises in the street continue to rise. 



THE CURTAIN FALLS, BUT RISES AGAIN ALMOST 
AT ONCE. 



AFTERMATH 

A late Spring dawn is just breaking. Against trees in 
leaf and blossom, with the houses of a London 
Square beyond, suffused by tJie spreading glow, is 
seen a dark life-size statue on a granite pedestal. 
In front is the broad, dust-dim pavement. The light 
grows till the central words around the pedestal can 
be clearly read: 

ERECTED 

To the Memory 

of 

STEPHEN MORE 

"Faithful to his ideal" 

High above, the face of More looks straight before him 
with a faint smile. On one shoulder and on his bare 
head two sparrows have perched, and from the gar- 
dens, behind, comes the twittering and singing of 
birds. 

the curtain falls. 
End 



77 



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